Something For The Pain
by RazMaKaz
Summary: Sherlock's gone and gotten himself hurt. This is how John Watson reacts. Sherlock & John. Friendship.


"Something For The Pain"

By: AvinWinter

Disclaimer: Not mine. Wish they were. I would beat the crap out of them more often.

Rating: M

Summary: Sherlock's gone and gotten himself hurt. This is how John Watson reacts. Sherlock & John. Friendship.

His fingers slipped, for the hundredth time, on the sewing needle and he swore under his breath, shaking off the droplets of blood from his hand. After a deep breath, he grit his teeth and tried once more to thread the needle through the fleshy skin of his side. It was much harder than Sherlock had imagined and he decided that stitching yourself up was probably not something people often did or wanted to ever repeat. It was definitely something he could go without ever having to do again. That is, if he ever accomplished it.

"Good lord," he heard John bark from the doorway. "What've you done to yourself now?" He had just come up the stairs, shopping in hand, when he fell upon Sherlock trying to awkwardly (and blindly) sew up a rather large wound in his left side. John, honestly, wasn't as surprised as he should have been.

Quickly, and with an irritated sort of flippancy, he removed his jumper and tossed it over the nearest armchair. Sherlock looked up as John approached, rolling up his sleeves and taking a clinical look at what he was about to be dealing with.

"Is that a _sewing_ needle?" he asked, kneeling down in front of his flat mate. "For Christ sake, Sherlock, you might as well've tried to sew yourself up with a pair of bloody chopsticks."

"Now why would I do something ridiculous like that?" Sherlock asked, his fingers shaking and his voice pinched. John narrowed his eyes slightly at him.

"Why didn't you call me?"

"I'm fully capable of taking care of myself," Sherlock replied, rolling his eyes. "I have managed a good while without you, you know." 

"I can see that," John said, noting the haggard line of stitching Sherlock had managed to accomplish. He put a strong hand on his friend's chest and pushed him backwards into the cushions. Sherlock sighed again and rolled his head on the back of the sofa. Awkwardly, he held his hands out in front of him, like a surgeon ready to scrub. They were sticky with blood.

"I don't know why you didn't just go to hospital," John said, aggrivated. He squinted in the low light at the wound in Sherlock's side. "This _really_ needs looking after." Though it did look clean enough, he couldn't be sure just how deep it went. John looked up at his friend, who had closed his eyes and finally let his bloody hands rest on his trousers. Shaking his head, he leaned back on his heels and steepled his fingers on his brow.

"If I'm not mistaken," Sherlock said, after a moment, his head still back and his eyes closed. "Your medical supplies are in the upstairs bath."

"Yeah," John breathed, rolling his eyes and standing up. "Back in a mo."

"I'm not gonna ask what happened, but I do want to know what did this." John said, taking a pair of gloves from his kit and pulling them on.

"A knife, I suspect," Sherlock said, his voice cloudy with pain.

"You _suspect_? Didn't you see who—"

"It's not important," Sherlock snapped, his eyes suddenly open and staring at John.

John glared back at him.

"How can you possibly get into a row and _not_ know what—"

"I was in a bit of a hurry," Sherlock admitted.

"I just bet you were," John grumbled as he took out a bottle of antiseptic and a few other items he would need to clean up the mess his friend had made of himself. After laying it all out on a cleared-away corner of the coffee table, John paused and looked up at Sherlock. His comrade was watching him quietly; forehead creased and pinched, his breathing a little shallow. Addmitedly, John should have given Sherlock something for the pain, but he wasn't in the mood to be nice. With Sherlock, sometimes it was very hard to be nice.

Taking a stabilizing breath, John leaned over the wound and pressed a fresh pad of gauze to the bleeding. Somewhere in his mind, he knew he should really be taking Sherlock to an A&E. He knew that Sherlock would hate going to hospital. And that alone made had him sorely tempted to pack his flat mate into a cab, just to see the sour look on his face. But, in the end, John decided that it wasn't worth a trip since the bleeding had mostly stopped. Besides, it looked as though it hadn't penetrated more than a few centimeters and nothing vital had been touched. It looked as if Sherlock moved out of the way of his attacker before the full force of the weapon could be inflicted.

"You're lucky, this time," John said, shortly. He liberally (perhaps a little _too_ liberally) poured the antiseptic solution over the wound and Sherlock's body seized up slightly at the cold liquid. With a pained grunt, his eyes slammed shut.

Oddly, John felt a small pang of guilt in his stomach as he watched Sherlock breathe in short gasps through his nose. Maybe he should have given him something for the pain. Or _maybe_ Sherlock should learn to keep out of trouble. Perhaps this would teach him to be a bit more careful.

With a shake of his head, John wiped away the now tinted antiseptic with clinical swiftness and Sherlock shuddered. He gave another small groan of pain and his head rolled restlessly on the back of the sofa.

Again, there was a wash of guilt in his stomach. It was odd that he'd never seen Sherlock look so…vulnerable before. It was strange and new; it was something he'd never expected from the man.

"It's alright," John said softly, after a moment, Quickly, he regretted saying it and he waited for Sherlock to have at him about being soft. But there was no reply or witty remark. Sherlock was, clearly, too busy cringing to make any sort of remark. He wasn't even sure if he'd heard him at all. Finally, after another long, unsteady minute, John put a hand on his friend's knee and Sherlock opened his eyes to look at him. John gave the knee a small pat and then used the leverage to stand.

"Here," John leaned over and gently took Sherlock's hand. He placed a clean white bandage in it and then pressed it carefully over the injury. "Hold that there for a moment."

John had never considered himself a pushover; he was a military man after all. But, of all the times he'd seen men in pain, this was by far the hardest. He knew he cared about human well-being, but he seemed to care far more about Sherlock's well-being than of anyone else in his life. It was an odd feeling to have, but at the same time, very comforting.

"Sherlock, you can give me that," John said, returning to take the bandage away. He'd filled up a syringe with a clear liquid and held it up in Sherlock's line of vision.

"Local anesthetic," John said, shaking it a little to emphasize his point. "I'll give you something stronger later, but while I stitch you up, we'll just settle for this, alright?"

Sherlock didn't say anything, but as the needle slid into his side and the fluid disappeared into him, he relaxed a little more and closed his eyes again. John smiled slightly, sighed, and set back to his work.

NOTE: Alright, I had to go back and rewrite the damn beginning. I got a comment or two on it and my beta reader wasn't really pleased with the way the thing flowed. So, here you go. Updated revisiting.


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